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I’ve been too long from these pages, but today seemed the right time to return. My father–a lovely, gentle man–would have been 96 today, so I am thinking of him. And knowing how heartsick he, my mother, and my husband would be over the election two days ago. So I’ve put Vivaldi on Pandora, and moved out to the porch, where it’s a bit on the chilly side, but okay with a blanket over my legs. I needed to be out here where there is more sunlight than anywhere else in the house, and where birds greet me on either side of the room at the feeders. The squirrels are running their usual zig zag patterns, and the tree colors–as they do yearly at this time–lift my soul.

Soul lifting is in order after Tuesday. I had a day of wound-licking yesterday, avoiding contact with anyone in person, but checking in with those whom I love, as distraught as I was. It was a day in which I journaled, read a bit of the Book of Common Prayer, watched a most gracious response from Hillary Clinton and President Obama and yes, ate ice cream and watched trashy t.v. But last night, at my daughter’s suggestion on Facebook, I sent a donation to an immigrant rights organization, and tonight I go to my usual Thursday night gig. I am part of a group in my small town that is working to eradicate poverty here, which is much higher than you might imagine. A meal is served weekly, followed by group time in which marginalized folks are paired with town folk (“allies”) who can offer advice and hands on help. My part is with the children, and though it can be frustrating at times trying to convey concepts such as “mindfulness” to a nine year old, I always come away with at least one insight from the night’s session; I always come away with at least one hug. I hope they are absorbing a little of what we are trying to share.

I retired almost a year and a half ago, and though I am kept very busy with family and particularly the growing crowd of grandchildren, I know that I need more with which to fill my days. So I will think about what that might be; the Trump victory and the changes it will bring in policies toward the poor, minorities, the LGBTQ community and so many more, will certainly provide many opportunities…..

I miss you often, but especially today, Dad, your wisdom and advice. But I will follow the example you set my entire life, one of compassion, love, and help for those who most needed it, including me. Love indeed trumps hate.

I recently visited my daughter and we had a great time eating Vietnamese food and shopping with her beautiful eight month old son in tow. I realized on these outings that people are prone to making some fairly inappropriate comments to babies they have never met and/or the adults who are with them. Since I am 65, I was somewhat dismayed to discover that frequently these well meaning (I’m trying so hard to give them the benefit of the doubt here), strangers are often my contemporaries. They are, in fact, Baby Boomers and beyond. After all, it’s a classic combination: babies and grandparents. But really, these encounters were a revelation to me. Because two of the things I most like in the world are venting about inappropriate behavior and offering free advice, I have taken it upon myself to compile a handy list for my contemporaries. It is short enough to print, fold, and tuck into a wallet next to the reader’s AARP card for easy access. Without further ado, herewith~

THE TOP FIVE THINGS A STRANGER SHOULD NOT SAY TO THE MOTHER OF AN EIGHT MONTH OLD BOY WHEN MEETING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A PUBLIC PLACE

Day Brightener #1~Elderly lady, clearly bitter, to baby’s mother: “Aaaahhhh…a beautiful baby! But enjoy him now; he will grow up, get married, and he’ll never pay attention to you again. He will only want to be with his wife!” You have now not only fulfilled the mother’s worst neurotic fear, you have also managed to ruin what was previously a pleasant outing at Ikea.

Day Brightener #2 (variation on #1)~Elderly, kindly looking gentleman: “Your boy is very cute, but I really like girls better. A boy will grow up and won’t pay any attention to you. A girl will take care of you when you get sick.” And once again, the baby’s mother is sent into a blue funk, picturing unreturned calls when her son grows up, marries, and moves out of her life….forever!

Creepy elderly man (see above), not satisfied with lobbing only one depressing comment, has circled the thrift shop to swoop in for another too familiar encounter with the baby. This time, in a move that is clearly inappropriate and ill advised, he offers the baby not one, but two pieces of wrapped hard candy. While he seems to understand that my grandson can’t actually eat the treats yet (lack of teeth and the fact that the candy is, you know, from a stranger tend to put the kibosh on such a gift), he nonetheless gives it to him. Then, in what quite possibly surpasses the previous creepiness, he hands the baby’s mom another piece of candy, “For Grandma!” (Yes, that would be me; I start scanning the store for the nearest exit).

Grandmotherly type, looking at what is clearly a small birthmark: “Oooh!!! What happened?! Did you get a boo boo, pretty girl?!” No, no he did not….

We have finally made it to the check out line; perhaps we can exit without any further baby comments and/or advice. Nope.This time, a 65 year old woman is the culprit. I know she is 65 because she has asked me to guess her age. This, after muscling her way into the long line and ending up directly behind us. Before I can guess, she has announced her age and modestly asked, “Don’t I look good?! I take care of myself, and inherited good genes.” Thank you so much for sharing. When we had seen her elsewhere in the store earlier, she announced that the baby, in a Bjorn, was lucky to be toted around by someone. “I wish someone would carry me around!” That, dear lady, would indeed be a sight to see. This time, as the line crawls forward, she announces that she wants to carry “that sweet baby” everywhere. It is at this point that my daughter makes a hasty retreat, muttering a few choice words under her breath. I stare straight ahead, make my $5.75 purchase, and join the family outside the store, clutching the baby and tossing the candy as we head for the car. There you have it; just a few choice examples for people of any age (but mostly my generation) of what not to say, should they encounter a baby in the course of their daily errands. You don’t have to thank me; but I will have to insist that from now on you stay the heck away from my grandson.

I’m sitting in the last of the day’s light, watching yet another snowfall softly make its way onto my car, the street, and in much more poetic fashion, onto the bushes and naked trees in my front yard. I’ve turned my wing chair toward the window in order to see the snow, and am listening to Esperanza Spalding–a recent wonderful discovery–and finishing up a Sue Miller book, while sipping Merlot. An altogether pleasant, relaxed way to spend a March evening.
But as I sit in this comfortable chair, I remember how I grew to nearly loathe it last year at this time. After a hip replacement in mid-February, it was necessary to sit in a chair that allowed my hips to be higher than my knees for three months. The wing chair couldn’t quite achieve this feat on its own, so I bolstered the seat cushion with extra padding and pillows. And it was from that spot that I did nearly everything that required sitting over those months. I would pull up a tray to eat meals there, and perched on the chair to read, work on my computer, write letters, chat with visitors, and watch t.v. How I longed for the day when I could sit somewhere else, and have a different view of the room! In retrospect, I realize this was a fairly insignificant complaint. I was, after all, so incredibly lucky to have had the healing surgery, really nothing short of a miracle in restoring my ability to walk without pain. I suppose, however, that it’s human nature to want what we can’t have, to miss the simplest of things when they’re literally or figuratively out of our reach. When I was finally able to graduate to sitting anywhere I pleased, I eschewed the wing chair, preferring the couch (a better view of the fireplace and so much nicer for naps!).
So it’s nice to return there tonight, this simple piece of furniture that served me so well during those recuperative days. As the sky darkens and the flakes mount, I know I’ll be back.

I read an article recently on the various quirks we humans have, and was reassured to find that I’m not alone in some of my behavior. And I’m not sure if the failure to master parallel parking falls under the heading of an endearing quirk (probably not) or, more likely, complete ineptitude on my part. Whichever area you assign it, it’s pretty much been the bane of my vehicular existence for the last forty plus years.

I didn’t get my license until I was 20 and a junior in college. I wasn’t that interested in driving, had friends to squire me about, and it simply didn’t hold the allure for me that it did for lots of other kids my age. My Dad, an incredibly kind and patient man, understandably seemed a little more tense with me by the time I followed my three brothers to a license. While I knew all the rules of the road and was conscientious about following the speed limit and using the signal indicator, parallel parking was a bugaboo I simply couldn’t conquer. We practiced it ad nauseum, but I think his unflagging patience was tried to its limit with me. Finally, the day of the road test came and I was of course pretty nervous about the parking portion of the test, which came last. [May I just interject that I was really annoyed when I learned my own children weren’t required to park when they took the road test. So unfair!] At any rate, I passed the driving portion with flying colors, and then carefully pulled into the designated parking spot between two orange cones. If memory serves, this maneuver took two or three tries. I knew I was in trouble when the young officer opened the passenger door, leaned his head out and asked, “What do you want me to do, lady, take a boat to the curb?!” He passed me anyway, either out of pity, not wanting to have to repeat the experience, or a combination of the two.

I’m sorry to say that I haven’t improved much since then. I am self-conscious enough about my lack of parking skill that I’ve employed a number of methods to avoid the whole experience. Generally, I’ll coerce a more competent friend into driving if we have to head into the city, and have been known to ply them with paying for drinks if they’ll take on the parking chore. On one notably humiliating occasion I even stopped the car in Old Town Alexandria and had my daughter take over the wheel; it was that clear that I wasn’t going to be able to park. I suspect she is disgusted with me to this day! Should I find myself in the unhappy position of having to actually park on my own, it’s often quite the show. I tend to garner one or more men who out of kindness or sport feel called upon to help me as I flail about and drivers behind me become increasingly annoyed. The kibitzers will stand on the sidewalk offering helpful advice and counsel, all the while attempting to hide grins or outright laughter. “That’s it, turn that wheel! Good, come on back…you’ve got it!!” On finally exiting the car, I feel like I should either take a bow or slink off with my head down, but generally just thank them profusely and hurry the other direction.

However, that was then, this is now. I don’t know if it was turning 65 recently or simply chagrin with myself for being so incompetent for so long in this one area, but I decided to embrace parallel parking. Okay, embrace is too strong; I decided to attempt it with less fear and loathing. Perhaps I wanted to disprove the adage of being unable to teach an old dog new tricks, or simply wanted to master it while I was still able to get behind the wheel. In any case, I now deliberately choose spots on the street that require me to use the parallel parking skills that my contemporaries mastered years ago. No pulling in head first for me, no sir! I’m not saying it’s always pretty; it isn’t. It takes two or three tries sometimes, and frequently involves the tires scraping the curb as I settle in. But I’m doing it, and I’m 65! And yes, I have the i-phone photo, proudly sent to my daughter recently, to prove it. Now if I could only learn how to use chopsticks….

I saw something quite lovely the other night, and as small a gesture as it was, it tended to renew my sometimes flagging faith in humanity. A friend and I went to a mini-concert at a local mall, the kind they often have for shoppers and other interested folk on weekend afternoons and evenings. It was a pretty evening, breezy and full of puffy white clouds, with a relaxed, mostly Baby Boomer crowd. When the band came onstage and started to play, several children, there with either parents or grands, got up and started to dance to the beat. It always tickles me to see the unabashed freedom of little kids; they aren’t even remotely embarrassed to dance in front of a bunch of strangers. Such uninhibited joy in their movements!
Before too long, a man of indeterminate age who was obviously special needs came over to the area where the kids were, a grin on his face. He was bopping along to the music as well, and the mom of one of the dancing girls jumped up and joined hands with him. She danced and twirled with him, and soon some of the children joined in, making their twosome a circle. Before long, another fellow who was with the first joined the fun. And a couple more women from the audience got up to dance with both men. The joy on the guys’ faces was transcendent and it made everyone in the vicinity smile. It also taught the children an incredible, unspoken lesson about kindness and reaching out to those who may be a little different from you. As the concert drew to a close, I know the enthusiastic young mom who energized that dance party left feeling good. But no more so than the male dancers, and those of us in the audience who saw more than a concert that night.

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”A Streetcar Named Desire.

It is difficult to accept the help of strangers, but I would maintain that it is even trickier to take help from friends and family. It has always been tough for me to ask for help of any kind, but that reticence was recently put to the ultimate test. You see, a few months ago I had my faulty left hip replaced. I think I had been, in retrospect, fairly cavalier about the experience prior to actually taking it on. Hip problems, along with failing knees, are nearly ubiquitous with we Baby Boomers; it simply couldn’t be all THAT hard, could it? Ahem…yes, it could! I began to realize as the date for the operation approached that this was, in fact, a pretty big deal. Beyond the basic mechanics of forever after having to be pulled aside as I set off alarms in airport security and permanently taking antibiotics before a dental visit, there were lots of things that would need to be attended to once I returned from my two day hospital stay.

The biggest roadblocks were the mandatory precautions hip replacement patients must take. While several were issued for the three months after surgery, the two most daunting and important were the admonitions to never bend at a 90 degree or more angle during that time, and to avoid twisting my body. This sounds fairly easy until you think about how often you do both. I am a consummate rule follower, albeit an occasionally forgetful one. So I jotted down both rules on post it notes and taped them to either side of my walker. Goofy, but effective…at least while I was on the walker, the first three weeks or so. More to the point, being unable to either bend or twist made me incredibly dependent on others to help with the simplest of tasks. Can you change the sheets, unload the dishwasher, pick up a piece of paper just dropped? The list goes on and on. So I had to simply give up the notion that I was an island and accept the help of a variety of people, from friends and family to those strangers mentioned earlier, who included CNAs for a short time and folks in the general public on a daily basis.

I embarrass fairly easily, and worried I would drop my keys and have to ask the stranger in line behind me at Martin’s to please pick them up. Would he think I was lazy or simply incompetent? While that particular scenario never played out, I did have a time or two where something similar happened. Incredibly, the world did not come crashing to a sudden halt. I think a huge part of the reluctance to ask for help is the loss of control, as well as something we women are very familiar with…never wanting to be a burden to others. We are so used to being caretakers ourselves that it pains us (sometimes literally) to ask for assistance. And the thing is, people really want to help. I’ve always had a fairly optimistic opinion of mankind in general,and my recovery period merely confirmed it. Those recuperative weeks were filled not only with nurse and physical therapist visits, but with a steady stream of friends and family. They brought homemade or purchased meals, flowers, books, and cards. More importantly, they also brought kind words, hugs, laughter,and a genuine caring and concern for my well being. Help was offered daily in a variety of ways, from my neighbor tromping through several inches of snow to feed my dog, to a stranger holding the restaurant door open as I entered, cane in hand. And I’m not sure why this should have been a surprise. My impulse when someone has a setback of some kind is exactly the same….how can I help? What can I do to make things better?!

So, should you ever find yourself in my position or anything close to it, don’t hesitate to reach out to others for help, as difficult as that seems. Instead, realize with gratitude that they love and care about you. They want to ease your burden and brighten your day in any way they can. And truth be told, one day you may well be able to return the favor.

Sometimes in life you’re presented with an opportunity you just shouldn’t pass up. That happened to me last summer, and I’m still regretting not having jumped into it with both feet.

My significant other and I were looking forward to using a generous gift certificate about this time last year. It was for a wine tasting followed by an elegant four course meal with wine pairings. The setting was Barboursville Vineyard, just outside rural Gordonsville, Virginia. The vineyard has been around for some forty years and its reputation is exceeded only by that of the restaurant adjacent to it, Palladio. As regulars at the weekly wine tasting here in my small hometown, we were looking forward to expanding our horizons. Plans were made for an overnight trip, including a stay at a charming bed and breakfast that appealed to me because Jack the dog’s photo was included with those of the staff on the website.

Never one to let a neurotic impulse go unchecked, however, I worried that we would have a hard time that night. We would, after all, be tasting a large number of wines…there were 19 available. That would be followed by an evening of still more wine…four different kinds with the meal, to be precise. Since my capacity is about a glass and a half (my daughter has in the past noted my cheeks getting rosier at the table and commanded, “Step away from the Pinot Noir, Mom!”), I was apprehensive. I knew we’d be in the middle of nowhere, coming back to the B and B in the dark, and on winding roads that could play tricks on the eyes after even one glass of wine, let alone three or four. With that in mind, I began hunting up possible taxi service to and from the vineyard.

Trust me on this…there’s not much available cab-wise near Barboursville. But one of the sites that came up when I googled possibilities intrigued me. It was called “Cabioke” and, as you might surmise, combines the best of both a taxi cab and karaoke. There was no information, just a name and phone number; evidently, this was a one-man operation. The friendly guy I spoke to assured me that in addition to the karaoke screen, the requisite disco ball was in place in the cab, thus adding to the fun. I was more than a little excited about this possibility, I must confess…I pretty much never pass up the chance to make a fool of myself. I could just see it. Me, lustily singing at the top of my lungs, probably a little louder on the way home than en route to the winery. I could fulfill all those latent desires to perform in front of the masses, belting my heart out to “I Will Survive” or “Dancing Queen.” And while being seated would cramp my ability to groove to the music to a degree, I still felt like I could put on a pretty good show.

By the time the day approached for our trip, we’d done a bit more checking. As it turned out, my knowledge of “wine pairings” was more than a little deficient. It seems they only provide about a 1/4 of a glass with each course, possibly taking into account the possibility of customers’ cars landing in ditches at evening’s end. I suspect the expense involved in a larger pour, along with tasting tradition, also plays into this decision. Moreover, the wine tasting that preceded dinner would be like others we’d attended; you’d certainly have the option to toss any leftover wine after a sip or two. So both practicality and thriftiness played a part in our choice to make the drive to and from the vineyard on our own. Truthfully, I was sorely disappointed, and didn’t forget about that “cab not taken.”

So I recently did a little more checking online. While the impression I had from the guy I spoke to is that he indeed had a standard sized cab decked out, that is not what you find when you google the term “cabioke” today. Instead, you are squired about in a limo (yes, they let us know it’s “pimped out”), which I found very tempting. After all, my best college pals and I are making plans to visit Wintergreen Resort next spring, and a winery tour is in the works. Cabioke touts itself as providing just such a service! I truly see no down side to our booking this smooth ride: friendship, raucous singing that could include backup for the lead, a built-in audience with more room for any needed choreography, a variety of wines, and safe travel. What could be better for friends of more than forty years? Are you ready, girls?! I may not have hailed that oh-so-special cab before; I’ll not let another chance slip by!